


Vices | Draco Malfoy

by toxic_addiction



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Depression, Draco Malfoy Being an Asshole, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, Muggleborn OC, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slytherin OC - Freeform, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toxic_addiction/pseuds/toxic_addiction
Summary: Draco Malfoy has never thought about another in his life. He overlooks the mass, with his white-blond hair towering proudly above all else. His family’s notorious name breaks down the door of every opportunity he sets steel grey eyes on. However, there’s an obstacle in his path to power; a brown-haired, sarcastic muggleborn who’s smarter than he can ever hope to be.Aliya Clarke — characterised by her crippling trauma and narcotic addiction. She has nothing but a keen mind and iron spite. In Slytherin, she’s defined by her inferior blood, and at Hogwarts, they see the serpent on her robes before the person wearing them. Wrongfully judged by all, she’s not sure if she can keep holding onto her pitiful existence; especially when Draco Malfoy catches her in a particularly compromising position."The dark lord’s rising, mudbloods like you have nothing to protect them anymore."
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. I. It's too fun digging my own grave

**PART I:**

_It's too fun digging my own grave_

☆☾★

I wonder what it's like to drown. Nothing will kill me. My sins would keep me afloat, I suppose, a nasty trick to keep me alive and suffering until I inevitably get dragged down to eternal damnation. The fates never particularly liked me, anyway.

Gran always used to say something about fate, that I'm still here for a reason. The fates had not yet given up on me so I shouldn't give up on myself. But so far the only reason I seem to be alive is for the fates to use me as they see fit. A pawn to bounce different ideas on; expendable, is what I am to them, they feel no remorse throwing me to the side for someone more ideal to a good life.

Someone prettier, smarter, richer; someone who woke to the sun and birds and said ‘I love you’ to their mother. Someone who didn’t cringe at any show of fatherly affection they see on tv, or get disgusted by any type of emotion.

_Someone whose soul doesn’t crave a special room six feet underground_

Maybe I'm dramatic, but I absolutely hate it here. Perhaps it's just me that I hate, because I seem to always hate it here, no matter where 'here' is.

But there's no doubt that I hate it _here_ : Sat alone in my own compartment on the train, head resting against the cold pane of the window—scenes of green and gray flurry past. I expect to stay alone. I don't look for anyone, and they tend to not look for me. It's just the way it is. I could always sit with Harry, Ron, and Hermione; they seem to like me well enough. But I always feel like I'm intruding on them, sticking out like a sore thumb. _Unwanted, unneeded, uninteresting._

Besides, none of them responded to my letters this summer, so I took that as confirmation they all hated me.

The compartment door slides open. "Alone again, Clarke?" He's amused, anyone could see, with glee sparkling in his eyes at my state. "Nobody wants to be seen with you? I wonder why."

I look past him. "You're alone, too, dumbass." I point out, finally seeing him.

Pale, blond hair that glitters white in the light. It’s longer than most boys opt for, ending just shy of the bottom of his ear. His jaw is sculpted, not overtly sharp but an angular curve that leads to his creamy neck. His nose is straight, his cheekbones carved by grey shadows. His eyebrows are dark, much darker than his hair, and they’re curved up in amusement. His bottom lip is bigger than his top, both a pale pink, curving upwards as he surveys this sad scene with gleeful eyes. "Calm down now. I would hate to give you detention already."

I blink. Then, I see it, the Prefect badge on his robes; It shines proudly as if he's been polishing it every night before bed. I roll my eyes, turning to face him, glad I already changed into my robes. I motion to my front. "I'm the other Prefect, genius."

The amusement radiating from him stops, instead replaced by a tumultuous, menacing aura. His eyes narrow. He stomps in, pulling the badge off my robes so hard it breaks free. He lifts it up to the light, scrutinizing it. "There's no way Snape would let a Mudblood like you be Prefect." He snarls. He can't seem to find anything wrong with the badge. He throws it onto the table, where it slides off the side and bounces on the floor. He looks down on me in disgust. I plaster a fake smile on my face. He scoffs, leaving.

He always looks at me like I'm worth nothing but dirt.

He always makes me feel like it too.

☆☾★

September 2nd, Monday, 5:34 AM:

Out of all the drugs I've tried, Sleep is the most infuriating.

I’ve yet to fall for Hypnos. He’s charming to most, plucking each soul out of their owners each nightfall, as if they were his to claim. His face is dazed, a blur of black and pale silver. Nobody knows what he looks like, they only feel when he starts to take their soul—a sudden sluggishness, slipping of the mind into a comatose state.

Hypnos also hates me, I'm sure, just an addition to a long, long list. I doubt anyone has managed to evade him more than I. As a punishment, he makes sure that whenever I do attempt to sleep, I'm ridden with guilt. The day never feels complete, like there's always something I could've done. Could've done, should've done, didn't do, and paying for it with regret at the end of each day.

_How come there’s no information on actually using defensive spells?_ I screw my lip in thought, lowering the book to the table. My DADA notebook remains bare before me. It’s the only one so far, the rest almost a quarter full of my atrocious handwriting, as I’ve summarised most books up to chapter 6 to get a head start.

A clock ticks in the background, a heavy, ancient grandfather clock that sits in the middle of the commonroom. I don’t realise how loud it truly was until a set of squeaky footsteps approach.

"How pathetic," a familiar voice drawled. I resist the urge to roll my eyes, turning calmly to look at Pansy Parkinson standing at the base of the stairs. My look turns bored. Her fluffy white robe is wide open, showcasing her interesting knee-length green lace nightgown. Her short hair bounces around her shoulders as she sniffs in disgust. "I suppose a dumb Mudblood such as yourself needs to catch up with the rest of us."

I force a laugh. Deciding _Defensive Magical Theory_ was a load of shit, I close it and quickly gather up my notebooks. I turn to face her, my face stony, with the curdling need to see her in tears welling up inside me. “I scored third in our year, Parkinson, and now i'm Prefect too. If anything, it’s you who needs to catch up to me.” I met her at the base of the stairs. My eyes narrow, trailing the length of her body—she’s really comparing her "I'd try harder if I were you. You're barely anything to look at, I'd hate for you to be completely _worthless_ as well."

She scoffs, eyes raging. “You’re worth nothing, you ugly fucking mudblood—”

I turn the bend of the stairs. Pansy’s voice gets smaller and smaller. I know that when she goes to bed, my voice will be the only thing that floats in that thick skull of hers.

I smile.

☆☾★

-10:10-

Sometimes, I think I'm a monster. Other times, not so much.

If I weren't, how could I bear saying such words to others? Even to someone as stupid, insecure, and repulsive as Parkinson. But then, sometimes, I think, 'How could I not?' Then, I stop thinking about it because I can't seem to answer that.

I sigh, smoothing my hair back and changing the part to the side. I glance at my cauldron, which is almost entirely purple and beginning to simmer at the edges. I grab my powdered moonstone, glancing around the classroom. Snape was stationed in front of Neville Longbottom, a lovely yet disastrous boy from Gryffindor who always smiles my way when he sees me looking. Snape's face is screwed in anger, spitting out words I can't hear over the bubbling of cauldrons.

Skillfully, I tip over the jar of powdered moonstone. I have my wand shoved up the sleeve of my cloak, pointed at my abandoned bag on the floor. I mutter a quick "momentum stabilis." The powder follows the point of my wand and drops right into the open jar in my bag. I don't take more than a few spoons.

I smirk, fixing my desk. That was the last ingredient I needed to brew enough draughts of peace to last a month. Maybe I can brew some memory elixirs too. I add powdered moonstone into the potion, watching the purple fade into a beautiful gray.

_"Clarke......Pssst..... hey! Clarke...Clarke!"_

I jump, heart lurching at the idea of someone seeing me. _Fuck...fuck me,_ I curse myself. I search the sea of heads slowly, wondering who would want to be seen talking to me. At the desk in front of mine, Blaise Zabini was waving at me. I furrow my brows, head tilting to the side. We've never spoken. I'll sometimes see him laughing in the halls, poking fun at the kids, and chatting up girls and guys.

But he's grinning, all white teeth on show. His slanted eyes are sparkling in mischief as if he caught sight of something that interested him. I fear he's seen me stealing from our Professor. My nerves buzz at the surface of my skin, breath almost getting caught in my lung. I clear my throat, tilting my head in question, acting tough. "I heard you ripping Pansy apart this morning." He smirks as he speaks, chuckling when Pansy's loud, undignified 'humph!' sounded in the classroom.

"Glad you enjoyed it," I say shortly, attention going back to my potion. The gray is pearly, shimmering in a reddish light. I slacken, breathing out in relief. _Relax_ , I remind myself, _you're fine._

I need to brew some drought of peace and soon. I can feel the back of my neck burning, itching, at the thought of Zabini looking at me. _He's probably laughing at you. He wants to hurt you._

_Nobody likes you._

"I've never seen you like this before, Clarke," Blaise continues smoothly, leaning his lower back against his desk so he's face to face with me. His dark skin glows in the lantern light. He sticks me with a strange look, one with an eyebrow raised teasingly.

I narrow my eyes in question. "You haven't been looking then." 

_"_ I am now," He chuckles, "Tell you what, what do you say about coming with me to Hogsmeade this weekend."

Before I can even think of an answer, there's a short, mocking laugh. I look up. Next to Blaise, left unnoticed by me, was a head of white-blonde hair. His shoulders shake with his chortles, and when he turns to look between Blaise and I, he has tears of joy in his eyes. "What? Did the mudblood's outburst get your little dick hard? Tsk." He clicked his tongue, shooting me a scathing look from over his shoulder. His eyes are a pale gray, with an underlying shade of blue that reminds me of the blade of a knife. He curled his lip, "Didn't think your standards would get that low, even if it was for a quick shag."

I blink multiple times. The itch at the back of my neck turns unbearable, my fingers twitching, trying to reach up and scratch at it until it hurts. Pure, unfiltered rage grabs me by the throat and cuts of my air. It's the same thing I felt this morning with Pansy, the need for me to hurt Draco Malfoy. To carve my mark into him and watch him cry.

When I speak, my voice is raspy and trembles, but my words hit their mark. "Ah, yes, because you're so good at that, aren't you, Malfoy. We've all heard what Greengrass has been saying about your performance.”

His cloak whips like a crack as he turns. I barely realize what's going on before Malfoy's grabbing me by my collar with an iron fist and seizing me towards him. He looks down on me, eyes narrowed and dark, mouth snarling. "Say that again, you pathetic little bitch," He spits. I'm partly suspended above my desk, on my tiptoes so the cloth doesn't dig into my neck.

_Don't give him a reaction, and you'll win._

_He's mad,_ and that thought makes me laugh mockingly. "You heard me," I uttered calmly, eyes flickering all over his face as I watched him go red. His pupils are dilated, eyes now black with a thin ring of grey. "Now, go run to your father and tell him that."

" _What_ is the meaning of this."

Suddenly, like a bubble popping, the anger leaves. I'm aware of everyone's eyes on us. Unlike before, I hope they heard every word I said.

Draco lets me go, staring at his hand in disgust. The absolute disdain that he ever touched a mudblood like me plain on his face. He's trembling with rage. I almost stumble but catch myself, gently lowering to sit in my seat with a cocky smile on my lips. There's a faint throbbing where my shirt pressed into my neck.

Snape is waiting, staring at us from Longbottom's table with hatred, if I've ever seen it. Longbottom looks scandalized himself, eyes wide and cheeks flaming red. Behind him, his potion bubbles over, sizzling through the table.

"Clarke seems to have a problem keeping her unusually large nose out of my business." Malfoy barks fiercely.

I nod, "All four minutes of it," I add, snickering.

Even though I ended up with detention and Malfoy was let off with a meager warning, it's clear from the sharp stare the blond sent my way that I had won, and he was not happy.

Too bad.

☆☾★

-7:43 PM-

Muggle life is the worst.

Maybe I'm biased, but I would hate to be a muggle. Even though to the pureblood trash I'm surrounded by, I'm as good as that. I sometimes imagine what would've happened had I not received an acceptance letter, had I stayed home, with my overbearing father always yelling, with my weakling of a mother continually doting on him, taking care of his responsibilities for him, letting him say all those things to me.

Maybe it would have hurt less when he left. Perhaps I would've killed him before he could. He would have killed me. I know he wanted to, and the feeling was returned tenfold.

The girls' bathroom on the second floor was always empty. It's broken beyond repair and unusable under most circumstances, which makes it the perfect spot for my potion-making. Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders. The stalls' wooden doors were flaking, scratched, and one of them was dangling off its hinges. Moaning Myrtle wasn't present this time around, which could only mean she's sitting in the plumbing, thinking about death.

I sit on the cold stone ground in silence. I stare at my cauldron in front of me, emitting clouds of white smoke that sink to the floor and warm my bare legs. Exhaustion tugs at my eyes; I know that, logically, I should sleep soon, but I'm not bored with life yet. I'll save the sleeping for when I get too depressed to move. 

I shifted, turning to face Hermione, who was sitting with her back to mine. Her shoulders are hunched, poring over a book so large it takes up four tiles. Her thin brows are furrowed, her thumb between her teeth. I was hoping to be alone, so I could maybe cry, but Hermione knows this is where I work and was already here when I arrived.

I don't know if I'm glad to see her or disappointed.

"I'm almost done. How about you."

"That horrible woman is planning to keep us in the dark by teaching us' _ministry approved theory'_ \--" She snaps, slamming the book shut with a thud. Dust flies out. "--I think not! I'm teaching _myself_ Defense against the dark arts, and I will get an E on my O.W.L'S." She stares at _Defense against the darkness: advanced_ as if it offended her, opening her mouth multiple times to continue, but deciding against it.

"Coffee?" I offer while outstretching my thermos. Hermione looks at it with her eyebrows pinched, seizes it, and gulps the rest of it down. I gasped, pulling it back, but it was too late. "I didn't mean all of it!"

"I'm going to need something to stop me from ripping my hair out." Hermione sulks. She takes a deep breath, pulling her hair behind her ears, eyes turning determined. "I am going to pass my O.W.L's." She reaffirms forcefully, pointing an accusing finger at me.

I raise my hands up, "Okay, I believe you, I swear." I blow some mist away from the edge of my cauldron to check the color, then shuffle through my bag and drop in some porcupine quills. "Be careful around Umbridge. She probably reports to Voldemort."

Hermione scrunches her nose. "Do you think she's that bad?"

"She seemed scandalized when she found out I'm muggle-born. Said that it was unbecoming of Slytherin.'"

Hermione sighed. "How disturbing."

"Everyone's disturbed in Slytherin." I agree. _Especially me_ , I think.

Hermione cracks a small smile as she thumbs the edges of the book. "Gryffindor won't stop talking about you after you showed Malfoy up." She reveals. "You're their hero, currently. Especially Neville, he seemed incredibly flustered. "

I grin, biting at my nail. The thought of everyone speaking about Malfoy in that manner gives the most delicious thrill of satisfaction. "He deserved it. I'm getting sick of that git." I stir my potion seven times, both clockwise and then anticlockwise. I lower the heat.

"Does he ever get tired?"

My lips twitch at the side but ultimately drop. My voice is faint when I answer, "No."

It's quiet for a few moments. Tree branches scratch at the window panes, begging to be let in as the howling wind terrorizes them. My potion bubbles, reminding me it's almost done.

I carefully pour it into small diamond-shaped vials. I then vanish any remnants in the pot and shove it back into the broken stall. When I return, Hermione has already packed my bag and offers it to me. "Let's go." She says gently, her eyes flickering from mine to my dark circles. "Harry and Ron are wondering where you are."

"They are?" I question, puzzled.

"Of course, you're their friend." 

I nod. If Harry and Ron felt that way, then why didn't they send me a letter? It would be embarrassing to ask, so I just say, "I'm just getting used to being back. I'm missing my grandma." I am not missing her, but Hermione buys it with a knowing 'oh.' She reaches out to touch my shoulder good-naturedly.

We walk together through the long stone hallways lit with torches. We turn, heading for the great hall where we'll split for our dorms.

I realize I've been holding onto the last vial I made. I thumb it, the glass glowing orange in the torchlight. "You want some?" I offer, holding it up. "It'll keep you calm while Harry and Ron abuse your last nerve."

Hermione laughs. "I could never. It'd just make me fall asleep, anyway." She pats my hand. "You need it more than I."

"Don't pity me and take one." I shove one hastily into her hand.

"Clarke," Hermione complains, shooting me a scathing look. At my smile, she looks back down, her edge slipping. She sighs, shoving the vial into her bag. "Fine -- but I'm not using it." She adds, giving me a pointed look. "I'll always have a spare if you need it."

My face screws up in confusion. _Why does she care this much?_ "I'm not going to die, 'Mione." Hermione presses her lips into a thin line and goes quiet.

"I know that," She presses. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. "I know." She repeats pitifully, defensively, as if she was trying to convince us both.

I breathe out, my heart heavy. I shouldn't worry those around me too much. My friends have more important things to focus on, especially someone like Hermione Granger. I couldn't imagine ever being as great as her.

_Stop being a burden to everyone, Clarke. Just drink your potions and move on._ "How's Harry, by the way?"

"He's angry at everyone," Hermione bristles. "He keeps snapping at me."

I twist my lip. The poor boy is traumatized after Cedric. His summer couldn't have been nice with those muggles of his; I hear they're awful. "I'll try to support him as best I can. You should too."

"Will do. Now, go to bed." Hermione demanded with a pointed look before slipping up the grand staircase. I watch her go, her brown waves bouncing with each step, cloak swishing behind her.

_The brightest witch of her age_. I could only imagine being as important as her. As smart as her. As needed. I wrap my arms around my middle without really meaning to, feeling hollow. Feeling cold. Feeling minuscule.

I want to matter as she does. I want to be worth something.

_"Well,_ if it isn't the resident mudblood holding onto herself for dear life." The arrogant, biting tone the Slytherin used curdles my blood. My fists ball instantly, itching to slam against his jaw. Malfoy moves down the steps, cloak billowing behind him. His blond hair reflects the orange torchlight, his ring glints on his finger. "Do me a favor and jump off the astronomy tower," his eyes glimmer with something sinister, flashing with malicious intent. He reaches the base of the stairs, approaching me menacingly. Then, as if he had invaded my mind and stolen my very thoughts, he said, "The only use for someone like you is to be _gone_."

_I know._

I scoff, rolling my eyes. "Funny, coming from you."

I ignore him, pushing past him to get to the narrow staircase that would take me down to the dungeons. His footsteps echo behind me. The narrow staircase reeks of his perfume, vanilla with a hint of firewood. I suppress the need to cover my nose. "I bet nobody would even notice you're gone," He continues, his smirk evident in his tone. "Not like anyone would care anyway."

_I know._

I blink tiredly. Gnawing numbness welled in my chest. Unbridled guilt brewed in my stomach, churning in a way that made bile rise to my throat. I swallow; it hurts. _Carve your mark, watch him bleed._ "I'm sorry you're so average the only time anyone pays attention to you is when you're an unbearable dick. Tell me, Malfoy, do you do it because your father doesn't love you?"

The next thing I knew, my head was exploding, thundering with pain. My vision was blurry with raging white circles—my shoulder aches in the spot where I crashed into the stone wall. My torso seems to rattle with the blow, caving inward, trembling. 

Malfoy stood over me. His jaw's tense, a muscle straining as he swallows. His darker eyebrows furrow, eyes dark. _Enraged_. His wand jabbed into my jaw harshly, the bone throbbing. "Leave my father out of this, Clarke."

"Did I hit a nerve?" I sneer, standing up straight. My head hammered like a drum, and his wand pressed even deeper into my jaw. I won't let him see how bad it actually hurts, both his words and rough handling. I'd rather die than let Malfoy see me like that.

I can't see his eyes, even though we were nearly nose to nose. White stars burst behind my eyelids, exploding. White surrounds me. "Too bad. Now fuck off and -- and find a personality that doesn't revolve around chasing after me all day."

My tongue feels heavy. I try to enunciate, but it comes out slurred. I push him off weakly, my vision spotted. I half expected him to hex me as I continued through the corridor. He doesn't.

Indeed, Draco Malfoy was nothing more than a poisonous little vermin.

At the same time, I don't think I'm much better. To me, Aliya Clarke is just a dead girl breathing, using potions to convince herself she's worth living for.

I'm not. I'm tired.

☆☾★


	2. II. I lie awake, always

**II. I lie awake, always**

-September 3rd-

Sometimes, I think that maybe if I were more desirable, my dad would've stayed.

Maybe my mother might have tried for me had I given her a reason to, instead of both of us staying in bed all day, doing nothing. I did try for her; I made her breakfast; aired out her room and offered her tea; washed her clothes; woke up in the middle of the night to her screaming and calm her down; sometimes forced her into a bath and washed her hair for her. She didn't want my help, though. She was emotionless, her face never changed, never raised her arms or turned her face, like a doll I had to manually shift. One night, two weeks after we moved in with my Gran, she hurt me when I tried to calm her from a screaming fit. After that, Gran forbid me from going near her.

Without me to move her around, she was more of a corpse than a doll. She never leaves her room, I never see her. Gran gives her meals and does her laundry. Gran buys her dry shampoo and wills her to bathe. Gran sometimes cries at the state of her daughter, and I look on sadly from my spot at the stairs, wishing I could be more useful to her. I sometimes cried at the state of us all, wondering how and why it had to be like this.

The fates sat on a cloud, watching us, all beaming smiles and boisterous laughter.

The draught of peace took away the pain. A small dose of liquid took away the whirlpool of burning pressure that was in my chest, it took away the ability to cry over my losses, it took away the dark cloud in my mind that prevented me from flourishing.

Because of the draught of peace, I regained the ability to think.

Because of the draught of peace, I don't cry over my parents anymore. Instead, I pray for their demise. Perhaps I will be their demise. One day.

One day.

-7:53 PM, 4th-floor broom closet-

W̶̥̝̦̣̼͑͂̍̈́h̸̛̤̖͖͇͚̏̔͆̾̕̕͠y̸̨̠̮͚̦̰̏?̶̧̟̺̠̼̱͙̳̝̈́͑͊ ̵͉̜̺͎͙̜̖̥̙̐̈̽̓̈́w̶̩̉̈͊h̷̘͙͚̼͉͍̙͂͑̓̕̕͜ỳ̴̙̹͔͔̭̹̼͝?̴̻̠̹̝̒͑ ̵̦̠̩͖͇͈̜̲̊̄̈̑́̆ͅẃ̴͚̣̝͂́̇͊͛̏͒h̷̨̧̯̦̥̜̻͉̝͛̎͂͛͘ȳ̸̛͎̫̝̺͚͈?̶̩̠̺̈́̓ ̸̲͍̳̙̦̈́̉́͋̅w̸̫͊̑̑̿h̸̗̟̳̓̒̍̔͗̀̎͝y̶̨͉͔͈̳̟͆̓̎͒̅̆̇͘͝?̸̡̺̬̻̞͕̜̀̀̿͆͂͛̈͝ ̶̡̱̝̪͔͚͕̙͕̍̊̓̎̋͘w̶͇͇͇͊͐ḩ̵̜̻͈̳̟̦͖͑y̸̩͗̑̀͊̈́̒?̶̘̺̃̈́͒̐̈́̉͋̌

̴̵̢̡͇̦̘͎͂̏̄̉̎̈́̓̃̇̏̚̕̚͜

̵̛̹̙͓͔̝̠͉͉̪W̸̞̘̤̩͔̝͋̌̓̾͛ͅḥ̵͍̗̯̝́ÿ̷̺̝̭͛̂̓͊͆̄ ̷̛̙̳̫͚̪̈́̒̑͘d̸͓͍͈́͆ǭ̴̳͑̌̌́̚͜ ̴̧̹̣̭̀̅̚͝y̵͓̓́̈̔́́̅̅̀o̷̪̊ų̵̜͔̺̲̤́̂̎ ̸̯̗͉̣̳̭̦̃͜á̵͖͈̅͋̓̔͊͠l̶͚͚͛̑̐̔̄ẃ̶̡̭̜͖͖̩͇̟́̀̓͜ȧ̸̬̖y̷̙̝̌̈̀̑͜͠s̸̨̮͖̩̩͍̻̎̏͆̅́̈́̓̄ ̶̬̮͉̮̺͚̯̠̈̋͛̐̽̂͝r̴̺̃̓u̸̬̍͗͛̈́̽͊̕͠i̵̢̺̳͇̯͒́͜n̵̦̤̻͍̳̂͋͆̃ ̸̢̗͕̗͔̄̒e̴̢̡̡͔͕͇͈͗̄͝v̸̲͋̃e̷̦̎r̶̹̒y̴̭̺̳͈͚͉̐̈́̐͂̕͝t̷͓̩̆̊̄͗̕ĥ̷͖̼̞̝́̊̅̍̾͊i̵̙̺̥̎n̵̼̠͕̥̏͐̃̂̌͆̿̈́̕ͅg̵͖̻̀͒̆̓.̵̺͓͎͙̬̖͙̑̇͑̏̊̾̚͝ͅ ̴̖̯͕͐̅̕̚͠

̵̧̥̭̆͋͘̕͘͠

̶̨̨͈̮͎̀͊̊̅̀̃͒͗́W̴͉̹̞̣̳̖̣͓̌͌̓̋̂ͅh̷̜̟͔͉͇̫͕͂͋̿y̵͚̦͉̬̠͈̺̜̖̐̀̃̂̇̓̌̾͝ ̴̨̭̺̭̙̦̥̯̂ͅd̴̛̬͚̓͐̆́̔͆̃̚ǒ̴̖͛̿̇͘ ̶̧͇̖̟̈́͒y̸̢̲̣̬̜̒̍̏͌͌̈̃o̴̩̫͍̽ų̵̖̹̜̱̥͌ ̸̪͇͙͈̔̑̇͑͠͝ą̴̬͚̹͎̍̑͐̓̒̑̚l̷͎̅̍w̶̗̞͓͖̤͙͎̺̘͋̇̈͋͝a̸̡̙͕̩̠̓̇͗̀̀̈́͌̚͜͝y̵̖͉̤̆̍s̴̜̃̈́̚ ̴̹͕͕̟̞̳̞̩͙̀͐̀̌r̶̡̨̰̮̝̓͘ú̵̡̠̘̰̹̻̙̽i̶͎̔̓̓͒̈́͝n̷͓̽̓̅̐̀ ̴̺̯̯̫͙̩͙̜͌̀͠ȩ̵̩̅̒͌͘v̸̼͎̳́͛̒̈́͒͒̈͠é̷̢̯̭̲͍̺̤̼̆̇̆̅ͅr̷̨̫̙͊̓̚y̸̛̻̩͂̀̂͒̀̀̅t̵͍̜̬̜̦̞̟̀̈́͝ḧ̶̘́i̷̜̱͎̎ń̶͚̹̰̭͎͓g̴̰̦͖͕̜̍͂̃̀̕̕.̵̫̙̣̭͔̍͒̀̇̋̈́̄

̶̧̺̣̹̘̤̫̇͛̒͒

̸̮͖̯̀̓̅ ̴̡͚̬͕̙͎͇̼͇̚W̸̨̨̬̙̜̫͔͓͇͌̓̑̃h̷̢̨̭̦̻̦̹̐̉́̿͗͋̄̕y̷̫̭̱̭̐ ̵̘̹̌d̸̗̭̬͚͓͍͓̆͗͆̂͜͜͠o̸͚̙̣̘͙͒́ ̴̡̛̘͈͉͚̱̙͈̒̆͋̔̍̄̎͠y̸͉͐̂̃̆ô̷̯̱͉̙̹͇̾̀̾̅̋̈u̸͕͔̤̒͑̄̀͒͋ ̵͍̇̑̽̎̕ã̵̺̮̺̜͙̳̮̋͌̂l̵̛͚͙͇͍̲̏̈́̽͗̍w̶̠͂̌̉͑̉͛̀̚͝a̵̠͙͇͉̽y̴̙̫̱̰̫̿͌͛s̶͙̙̗̞̼͇͛̅̔̚͠ͅ ̸̢̲͇̝̫̾̄̂͆̅̔͗͠͝r̵̙̋͒̍̂u̷̟͖͙͇̬̫̩̓͗͋̑̽͊͝i̵̡̡͑̓̏̐̽̚n̷̤̝̜̱̱͚̩̂̽̄͛́ ̸̡̞̼̠͈̞̫̱̭̀͗̎̊̏̕ë̵̺͓̠̜̪́̕v̷̮̯͇̠̈́e̶͎̕r̷̯͚̥͍̝̦̓̓̐͂͗͘ȳ̶̛͈͍̱̞̭̙̣̆̾͂̋̚t̴̺́̔̏͝ḩ̵̛̪͓͈̂͒̄i̶̳̥̮̘̹̥̓̿̿̈́̕n̴̛͎̤͇͚̰̖̯̫͙͛̓̈́́͑̓͋͝g̷̡̠̗̹̟̘͈͎̎́̑̓.̸̢̨̮͈͔̳̱͕͖̓͗͆́̈́͝ ̶̺̦̘̎̉̒̽́́̊͠͝

̶̡͕̀͝

̵͙̖̐͘

I̵̢̲̙͇͍͎̱̤̦̯͚̠͋̀̐̐̾͒̍̇̀̐t̷̘̪̜̜̹̟͛̇̉͐̃̇̀̓̇̎͠'̴̻̗̣͇͚͎͉̺̰͆̄̿̀͘͝s̸̖̺̋̐͌͌̈́̓̂̓̈́̉̿ ̶̟͇͉̩̪̺͕̤͝s̷̡̨̢̛͈̳̫̰͈̹̘̜̰ỏ̵̗͇̦̭̞̃͆̓͌̃̓͐͝ ̵̣̘̗͎̜̝̳̳̪̪͓͓͐͜e̷̢̧̮͖̗͚̭͎̖̭̅̋̚m̴̡̲̝͕̏̿p̴̨̱͝ţ̴̞͕̜̻̮͚̤̠̈̽̒͌̒̋̈̾̓͘̚̕͠͝͠y̶͚̳̰̲̅̌̐̏̈́͐̚ ̴̼̟̦̻͙͉̾̄̈̊̓̽ͅi̶͎͚̘̰͉͂̑͆̏́͒̓̅̃͋͜͜n̴̢̮̜̘͓̬̙̺̲̻̘͂͗̒͜͠ ̶̛̜̣̒̂̉̍̂ḩ̴͈̼̻̺̠͙̳̭̖͔͍͚͒̽̕ͅȩ̸̥͓̜̤̫͇͗̏̑͛͛̀̿͊̾̑̕r̷̛̞̟̠̙̬̅̑͛̊̓͌̌̋̍͘͠e̷̼͛̋̉̔̆̌̄̿͆

Ī̷̧͙͈̻͍̱͜t̴̡̢͓̯̩̭̭̂͗͛̉̉̓̚s̷̢̧̬̬̝̹̞͙̹̗̱͑̔̔͂̒͆̄͊̓̆͘͜͠͝ͅ ̶̡̡̨̛̩̼̺̯͗̋̅̌̾̑͆̇̚f̸̾̂̔͑ͅr̷̡̺͓͇̙̜̹͈̱̲̽̒͒̈̾̎̓͂̐͝e̴̼͐͛̐̑̽̀̾͗̾̃̚͠͠e̷̛̮̅̎̍̏̒z̴̬̯̱̜̟̿̊̈́̍͆̓̆̋́́į̶̨͕̞̺̗͔̜̪͈̙͉̥̱͋̈́̆n̵͇͔͚̹̅͒̾̒̾̒̿͂̉g̸̖͍̜̯̮͗̍͆͘͝

̶̧͚̞̜̘̈́̆̑̔͂ͅY̷̝̱̗͋̾͌̓̑͂o̴̱̱̖͋̍̊̿͌̋̔̽̃̅ū̵̧̮̼̦̰͙̠͈͔͈̼̭̠̗͑͑̎̑͂̈̓̓̎̽̔̚͜͝͝'̸̨̧̥͎͈̹̈́͐̈́̓̾͋r̷̛͙̼̠͇̍̐ȩ̶͍̭͔̘̠̹̲̺̱̈́͛̃͋̂̈́̎̅̈̈́̕̕̕ ̸͈͔̲̻͉̖̼̳̰̗̅͝f̶̢̢̘͇̪̭̫̩͍̥͖̯̈́̀͝r̵̘͎̺̮̗̜̩͊̔͗̋̌͜͝ͅȩ̸͇͍͔̠̖̰̭̭͛͂̾̾͛̓̆̽̓̈̐̐ė̸̢̖̪̘͎̬̹̣͉̇̍͗́͜ͅz̴̧̑͐̃i̸̢̧̫̰̋̊̑͜ͅn̴͖̕g̵̬̼͔̦̬̘̈́̍͋̏̏̑̌̂̈́͝

̸̰̦̤͌̉̅̚

N̸̨͎̰̼̪̺̣̞̼͕͑̓͑͂̓͝ǒ̶̢͖̟̤͊̑̑̊̓̇̾̔̕͝͝͝b̶͓͙̣͚̒̍͑͌̓̽͊͋̇͒ǒ̴̢͍͎̼̺̠͍̭̝̤̳̝̙̔́͂͊̓̅͆͜d̶͍͓͈̹͓̿y̵̙̭̼̰̺̝̙̯̪͓̻̎̚ ̷̡̰̰̹̲̻͎̻͐w̶̢̡̫͇̜͕͖̬͕͕̯̙̼͊ͅͅa̵̛̼̣̪͔̼̼͍̭̹̟̳̎̇̏̈́̉͘͝n̷̯̻͌͂̅̃́͆̑͋̌͐̎̈́͠t̸̡͈̱̪̉s̶̛̥̺̖̺̰̦̲̘̩͘ͅ ̶̨̗̗̺̮͑̍̃̍̇̃̓̉͗̌y̵̤̠̲̘͋̃ȯ̷̧̨͖͉͓̺̦̮̫̤͖̞̱̠̩u̸̢̅̃̅͛̋̈́̒͊͋́̕̚̚ ̵̨̡͍̝̤͉̠̝̙͉̤̄̏̂̀̎̿̔̂̀͝͝h̷̢̧̥̞̮̺͕͐̑͆͂̄̍͐͂̅̂͗͆̓̓͜ͅe̷̡̩͔̬͇̝͚̭̼̖̫̠͎̺͊́͊͂̐̒́̑̕r̴̨̲͙͇͈͕̰̺̀͋̀̈́̾͒̈́̿ẻ̸̜̰̎̇̀̅̒̏͘͠

̸̙̩̘̫̣̯̙͎̤̝̃̇̒̍̈́̉̃͠J̷̨̝̼̹̹͉͖̮̬̮̳̬̗̙͓̆u̴̡̦̳͖̥͍̩̩̓̅s̶̥̔͐̊́̉̓̽̉͘ţ̵̟͚̬̭̣̜̞̼̗̮̺̇̽͂͑͛̂̈́̄̓͒ ̶̨̜̠̳̩͖̬͔͍̫̰͊́̅̽̇̚͜͠ͅd̶̨̧̼̭̪̬̤̫̟̲̤͚̖͆͜i̷̺͎̬̺̺͓̰̪̱̊̍͛̎̋̆̕͘͜͝s̵̡͈͔̼̪̿̿͑̽̋̾́͋̂͜͝ͅs̴̖͇̣͉͕̦̚a̴̡͖̯̗͍̲̲͉̯̜̿̏͑̂̍͛̓̂͗͠p̷̧͚̙͕̠̭̃͋̊́̍̏̈̂͠ͅe̴͇͙͉̋a̷̘̭͎̫̺͖̙̐͜r̸̢̡̜̲͐̈͝

̶̛̣́͌͌͘

̵͚͂̅͌̏̅͂̇̚͝

̷̢̲̈͂̓ẘ̸̢̧͎͇̲̲͕̳̟̝͒̿̅͂a̸̰͎̗̫̤̋̂̐̉̓l̸̨̧̪̬̤̜̟͕̎͂͐͐́̈́̋͊̕k̶̪̑̄̿͊͠ ̸̡̣̰̭͖͖̘̫͈̠̘̈̐͆ͅi̵͕͑͋͗̅̌ņ̴̤̬͇̠̤̱̙̝̌͊̓̓͌͒̽̄̔͘͠͝͝ṭ̶̡̨̝̯̼̹̬̰̫̖̟̭͑ͅơ̵̧̜̖̒͆̔̉̑͑̓̏̀̌ ̸̡̪̫̹̳̲̫͒͋̍̈́̓͘̚͜t̵̲͑̐̀͌̃͂̑̓͑̌h̷̨̡̛̭̜̤̠̼͎̠͙̭̹̘̏̓̈̓̒̅͛̈̈́̾͌͘ė̶̡͉̯̱͎͓̿͊̾̇͘ ̴̨̯̟̎̇͝f̵̻̥̹̐͒̚o̶̯̙̫̙͆̃̆͑͗̏͝r̷͇̖̠̥̩̫̠̪̊̚ͅȩ̴͔͚̘̠̖͎̖͈̤͓̝͖̋̌̉s̵̲̹̱͎̓͋͛̑̚͜͝t̶͉̅̅͆͐̏̄̋̑̋͘̚͠͠͝ ̶̧̩̹̫̯͇̭̱̣̬͌̂̿̾̉̈́̕͜a̸̱͔̲͔̣̩̬̹͌̂̉̽̐̏̎ͅņ̶̦͆d̸̨̛̙̰̣͚͓̫̱̰̬̯̝͉̔̈́͒͐͜͝͠͝ ̴͎̼͇͉̣̩̲͎͙̳̗͓͕͖̔̅̀̓̓̍̚͝d̵̡̘̦̘̯̘̳̙̫͇͓̭̯̗͇̔̏̄͆̋̒̔̕ơ̶̩̪̑͒͋̇̈́̽̽́͋̉̒ñ̴̡̮̺̥̞̪̥̗̠̈́̔̀͊͘ţ̸̯̲̘̦͍̲̤̳̪͉̪̖̾̒͒̌̒͒̈̿͜ ̶̧̛̤̬̭̦̘̪̙̭̿̏̌̃͛͗͗͛̂̚ͅc̵̣͑̓̈́͒̈ǫ̸̺͌̏͗͂͛̑̌̽̓̚̕m̵̡̧̝̰̮̬̥͚̞̖̦̘͈̰̙̔̈́̈́̎͘̚͝ę̸̛̻̫̲̗̬̠̥̙̰͓̘̠̭͊ ̸̜͈̜͍͎̪̱̙̎̋̈̐͂͒̅̿̍̅̔b̷̢̡̜̙͙̯͈̩̻̘̒̓͐͋̀̇̈͛͗̀̽͐̚͝͝ͅa̷̢̯̠͕͔͇̭̗͙̙̻̖̰̺͍͒̃̔̓̓̄̔́͂͊̚͠c̸̢̹͙͓̱̬̣̝̗͊̽͘k̶̢̺̦̺̱̙͈̺͎̀͝

̶͓̞̼̜̱̽͋͗́̂͂̂̅̕̚N̶̡̨̧̛̖̥͚͓̹̹̜̝͓̦̓̓̈̊̄̉͆̃̈̕͝͝ö̸̱͓̩̖̼̱̦̩̣̬͒̊̿̔̅̈́͂̕ ̴̤̥͇͇̣̒̅̈́̃̓̈͐͐̅̐̕̕͝ͅo̶̡͉͍̜͕̪̼͎͖̖̿̒͊̒̿̎̓̽̂̈̆́̌̊͠n̸̢̛̫̺͖̦̜͇̬̝̲̟̞̈͗̿́̑͊̆̅e̴̡̳̲̗̯͕̰̝̟͂̓͜͝ͅ ̷̛͙̼̜̱̞͕̣̹͙̈̑̑̈̈́̏̈̆͌͝͝ͅw̵̧̢̢͈̻͕̫̩͓̰͍͋̽̐̐̅̈̚ǫ̵͉͉̪̬̪͌̆̔́̽̐̑̈́̾̓̈́͘ṵ̵̧̘͉̙̗̘̗̔͝l̸̠̺͍̘̥̪͈̜̉̍̐̂̕͜͠ͅd̷̩͖̹͍̘̖̝̪̳̳̙̗͇̱͗͘ ̸̲̝͓͔̖̱̺̬͍̼̦̤̒̍͆̒n̷̢̡̡̲͖̬̟̦͋ǫ̵̗͚͖̣̹͛̔̇͝t̴͚͚̭̾͆̿̍͋̒̀͛̈́̍ͅì̵̢̢̫̝̼̖̭̹̣̦̳̟̓č̷̺͍̯̭̤̤͍̻̑ë̴͚̼̩̻̭͎̥̣̤͔̹́̐͗͊̍͜

I gulp down a potion frantically, fervently, spluttering around it in my haste. My chest heaves in air, air, air -- I _couldn't breathe_ , I can finally breathe. My heart, covered in a layer of frost and chill, beats against its icy prison, my entire body thumping in tandem, reverberating in my ear and bones. My body is cold, practically frozen solid, purple veins highlighted on my pallid skin.

_Walk into the forest and don't come back. Nobody would care; they wouldn't even notice._

The thoughts - my voice - withdraws slowly. I know it is still there, shackled by my draught of peace in purgatory, waiting for the moment the potion's effects wear off to stab at me. As long as I take a potion, it's looming behind me but unable to be heard.

The voice wasn't always like this. It used to be human and subtle in its degradation. It was constant. It weighed me down until I was empty yet so cold inside. After I started taking potions, it became a monster—a bellowing, snarling, frothing monster, angry that I had shut it away. It vowed to hurt me.

It's me. I'm going to hurt me one day. A numb part of my ill brain wanted that day to come faster.

Without the draught of peace, I can't breathe, I can't think, I can't be happy.

I stay in the broom closet, staring at the cobbled wall until my chest stills and my heart thaws. It's only then I realize my face is burning in acid, lines etched down my cheeks and jaw.

_You're dramatic, Clarke_. I mutter to myself, angrily wiping away the tears under my eyes. _Nothing is wrong with you. Poser._

_Just an addict._

Sniffling, I clean myself up with a quick flick of my wand and wretch the door open, stomping out.

☆☾★

-8:21 PM, The Main Hall-

I rushed down four flights of stairs to make it to the great hall, halting when I caught sight of the blond I was scheduled to meet twenty minutes ago. I suddenly feel foolish, showing up in such a state -- a hoodie and sweats, fresh out of a withdrawal breakdown, and chest heaving.

He doesn't look up when I approach. Only when I stood before him did his eyes finally flicker to narrow at me.

"When we're scheduled to patrol, I expect you to show up," Malfoy says in disdain, looking down at me through his lashes. He's leaning against a wall, eyes half hooded, looking as bored as ever. He's still in his uniform, the collar coming to rest just under his Adam's apple. The burning torch above his head adorns him with an orange glow. Fire reflects in his light eyes when he looks at me—a tendon on his jawline clenches.

He's beautiful. He's atrocious.

Still catching my breath, I smile at the sight of his ire. "I didn't expect you to care, Malfoy. 'Might just be late more often."

His lip curls down, "I might just vomit."

Rolling my eyes, I glance around the main hall. The gargantuan doors to the great hall are sealed, and the only source of light are the torches burning, twinkling in the dark like a line of jewels. It's always full of life that it feels forbidden to see it like this.

"I'll take the first three floors; you take the rest. Stay up there for the rest of the year." Malfoy instructs promptly with a sarcastic smile to finish it off. He doesn't hesitate, using his foot to push off the wall and walking away. His heavy shoes echo through the hall, the sound washing over me like thunder.

I stare at his back, not knowing what exactly to say. _That was it? A mere sentence?_ He gives me a dry look from over his shoulder, eyes rolling when he sees me rooted in my spot. "Did you expect me to stay?" He says wryly, pouting mockingly and laughing over his shoulder. I furrow my brows, watching him disappear down the corridor.

He's right, of course, I shouldn't have expected anything from him.

I inspect one of Hogwarts' many empty passages, gazing into the crevices of darkness. The tip of my wand was lit with a glaring ball of white light, which I learned to keep low to my hip, as the portraits like to curse at you when you disrupt their sleep. My shuffling footsteps seem heavy in the blaring white noise.

_It's nice not having my unstable thoughts weigh me down. I wonder how long it'll last._ The intervals between uses are getting shorter nowadays. I can barely last 8 hours without another one. I used to go a full day without needing one.

I sigh as I finish up the sixth floor, not one person in sight. What even is the point in this? No student is dumb enough to get caught, and I don't care enough to stop anyone if I saw them anyway.

I patrol the seventh floor halfheartedly. I halt suddenly, straining my ears until I hear it. A scatter of thumping footfalls echoed through the hall, getting louder, louder, and louder until I could nearly feel how close they were through the vibrations on the floor. I look around frantically. "Lumos Maxima," I whisper, the tip of my wand brightening. Multiple portraits groan, cursing at me. "Who's there?" I call out, inching closer.

The footsteps halt, the air stilling. "Aliya?

"Harry?" There he is, a silhouette standing at the end of the corridor. It's too dark to see his face, but his glasses reflect the light. The shadow inches closer, curiously. "Harry! What are you doing out of bed?"

The glasses, seemingly floating midair, tilt to the side. "Why are _you_ out of bed?"

"I'm a Prefect!" I press, squinting into the dark. "Come closer. I haven't seen you in forever."

He abides, stepping into the light. His hair is cropped shorter than I remember, a few strands pointing up haphazardly. We used to be the same height, but now I notice I have to look up to view his face. His hands are shoved into his pockets, eyes squinting behind his glasses. I expect him to go for a hug or a handshake, but he just stands there, staring. "You're a Prefect too?" He questions, disbelieving. He seems almost... offended, like he wants to scoff but held it back for my sake.

_He doesn't like you, idiot._

"Yeah, I was as shocked as you are. You scared me half to death back there. Why are you out of bed so late?"

"I just got out of detention," He remarks dryly. I don't think I've ever heard him use a tone like that. It reminds me of the dull, apathetic manner I use often.

I look at him cautiously, "Are you okay?"

He bristles, face tensing. "Am I okay -- No! I know Dumbledore made you not tell me anything over the summer, but at least Ron and Hermione updated me on how they were. You didn't send _any_ letters over the summer -- do you know how mad I drove myself--"

"Shut up, boy!" The portrait of an old, bearded man demands with an indignant shake of his fist. "Nobody cares how mad you are. You're ugly, no wonder the little lady didn't send you anything. Now be quiet and let me sleep!"

I wince, "Apologies, Sir William."

Sir William grumbles, shooting us a rude hand gesture before he goes back to sleep.

I round on Harry, who's staring at Sir William with a gobsmacked expression, a hand over his mouth. "Dumbledore never told me anything. Was he supposed to? And I _did_ send you letters, but I did _not_ get any from you." I reply in a hissing whisper, voice rising as with each word.

"You- You have?" Harry balks. "Then why haven't I gotten them?"

Oh. So he wasn't ignoring me? I breathe out in relief, laughing slightly. I feel foolish now for sulking through the summer, distracting myself by helping Gran in her garden. I'm sure half her cabbages were watered with my tears. "I thought you were ignoring me," I admit, hand coming up to scratch the back of my neck.

I couldn't help myself any longer, looping my arms over his shoulders and pulling him into a hug. He makes a surprised sound but returns it, wrapping one arm around me, the other snug in his pocket. He was stiff at first but relaxed soon, breathing me in. He smells like broom wax and laundry softener.

"I feel so silly." I pull back to peer at his contemplating face, smiling when he looks into my eyes. "Hey," I say softly, wondering if he's calmed down enough.

He looks a bit sheepish now, but it makes my smile broaden. _Maybe he doesn't hate my presence all that much._ Harry's lips curve up, "Hey." He returns hoarsely, shoving the hand he hugged me with back into his pocket.

"Rough night?"

He nods, head ducking to the floor, one of his scuffed trainers toeing the other. "Rough few weeks," he admits, biting his lip, shrugging.

_It couldn't have been easy._ I return my hand to Harry's shoulder, squeezing softly to give him comfort. I feel like I've done something right when a small smile lights up his face. "Go to bed, okay? I'll see you soon."

He nods, already walking away. He stops just short of my light to look back, emerald eyes twinkling with small stars and a slight grin on his face. "Thanks, Aliya," He whispers, echoing in the corridor.

"I'm always here for you, Harry."

_Just please don't hate me when you realize how horrible I actually am._


	3. III. Ignorance, it's always the privileged

III. _Ignorance, it’s always the privileged_

Hypnos and Thanatos are brothers. Born out of inky night and endless stars; they're always around me, whispering in my ear, wrapping their shadowy limbs around my throat, around my mind, around my soul.

_Sleep, or death; sleep, or death; sleep, or death?_

Incessant exhaustion, or a sharp stroke of a blade? Ceaseless misery, or a quick flash of green? Relentless memories, or sinking down

down

down,

into dark blue

Hypnos, or Thanatos?

I don't have to think twice - so, why do I then? Why do I hesitate? When Thanatos comes knocking each night, each time i splutter and stop breathing and reach for a draught of peace; when my mind tells me to step off the astronomy tower, to freeze on the forest floor, to go swimming in the lowest point of the lake;

_But what if?_

_What if there's something more for me?_

_What if I'm made for something._

What then?  
  


-September 5th, 9:23 AM, Transfiguration classroom-

The transfiguration classroom is beautiful. It's a circular room with a dome ceiling, with short slants of glass separating the wall and the roof. If there was sunlight, beams of light filter through like wisps of angel dust. If it was rainy, I could look up and see the water wash over the glass-like ocean waves. If it's cloudy, like it is every day, it was a cool gray. I like it the most when it's gray. That's when the world is prettiest—gloomy, dark, and depressing.

It's when I'm the prettiest, too.

Professor McGonagall's voice is loud, reverberating around the room. She emphasizes the importance of the O.W.L.'s, but I've heard this lecture thrice before, I'm getting dreadfully bored of it.

There's a shift, and suddenly a presence manifests at my side, occupying the empty seat beside me. Blaise Zabini sits next to me, staring forward at the blackboard. There's a smirk on his lips. I shrink to the edge of my seat, staring at him from the corner of my eye, bewildered. I hear a scoff somewhere behind me; judging by the amount of venom in his tone, I deduce it's Malfoy. I couldn't blame him. I wanted to ask the same question I knew was on both our minds: What is Zabini playing at?

"What are you doing?" I whisper.

He faces me, his slanted eyes flickering over my face. His face splits into a wide smirk. "Wanted a better view." He replies haughtily, leaning back against his chair. I couldn't help but notice his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, his lip rising steeply at the side.

I snap my eyes back to the front, blinking rapidly. My mind was bouncing in several different directions, and yet landing at no plausible conclusion. _Act normal;_ act like you're not flattered, confused, or scared in 10 different ways, Clarke.

"Longbottom!" McGonagall snaps suddenly, like a whip cracking. "It would do you well to pay attention." 

I look at Neville, only to find that his brown doe eyes are already on me. He ducks, burning all the way up to his ears in embarrassment. A wave of chuckles rolls through the class. McGonagall glares until everyone has stopped and then clears her throat. "You cannot pass an O.W.L without serious application, practice, and discipline—"

"He thinks you're pretty, y' know," Zabini whispers, so low I barely catch it. I don't react, choosing instead to look back at Neville. He was hiding his face in his hands, shame radiating off of him in waves.

I smile, cooing internally. How adorable. "I think he's sweet," I admit.

A scoff sounds. "You two are clearly meant to be," Malfoy jeers, laughing under his breath. 

I turn to look at Zabini. He's chuckling too, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes full of something that I couldn't identify. "Sure." He says simply, turning to the front.

He doesn't speak to me again.

☆☾★

-4:23 PM, Slytherin girl dorms-

In true Slytherin fashion, the dorms were nothing less than outstanding.

The poster beds - two on each side of the spacious room - were decked with green blankets. The bed's poles were twisting snakes etched out of wood, their forked tongue apparent, a green jewel for each eye. The windows bathed the room in a sea-green glow. When the torches aren't lit, it's the loveliest thing, the entire room illuminated by the reflection of green waves of water and dimmed by passing fish.

When Pansy and Millicent aren't present, it's pleasant to be here. I lay on my bed, eyes burning from lack of rest. I contemplate resting, knowing I'll regret it when I wake up at some ungodly hour behind schedule.

My schedule consists of researching defensive (and offensive) spells in the library and documenting each in my notebook. I've decided that if Umbridge wants us to follow 'ministry-approved methods,' I will teach myself the syllabus. I refuse to believe anything the wizard government says.

I was just drifting off when the door slammed open, loud laughter following suit. " _Goodbye_ , Adrian." She enunciated with a flirty finality, giggling.

_Adrian's so easy_ , I roll my eyes. _Pansy and now Daphne too? Wow. He's hot, though_.

Daphne Greengrass was as beautiful as they come. Her hair falls to her clavicle in inky waves, dark brown against her fair skin. Her lips are full, petal pink, and luscious. Her nose is thin, sloped upwards, and her eyes are big and green. It's hard not to be self-conscious around her when I'm her polar opposite: curved nose, tan skin, with curly hair that cannot stay put. I resist, though, because my narcissism doesn't just stop at my personality. It only stops when I'm around her.

"Still here?" Daphne tuts, setting her bag on her bed. "It's like you have nowhere to be."

_I don't._

"Although I can understand why nobody wants to be seen with you." She fakes a pout. "Poor little mudblood, alone in the world."

I'm getting sick of that word. It sends a shot of annoyance up my chest, and I have the sudden urge to choke her. I keep my face neutral, staring up at the ceiling, breathing out deeply. It's dehumanizing, a word used as a shield so they can act like I'm not superior to them.

Nobody here does as much as I do.

She begins to unclasp her necklace, setting it onto her trunk. "I'd hate to be you, you know. No one gets close; they're all disgusted. You're not worth the stain on their reputation." 

I blink— _rage seizing by the throat_ —and breathe calmly— _carve my mark._ "I'd hate to be you too, Daphne. Your need for validation doesn't stop, does it? Because no matter how many compliments or gifts you receive from boys, it's not enough to fill the gaping hole in you from your parents ignoring you." She whips around, hands still in her hair. Her eyes are hard, mouth ajar, brows furrowed. _Not enough. Want her to bleed._ "Did you notice that your parents love your little sister more? I did. They send her more letters, more gifts, more pocket money. But you? When was the last time you got anything?"

Her eyes are rimmed with steel, mouth downturning into a scowl. Her anger is red hot on her cheeks.

My tongue pokes the inside of my cheek. I smile at her. "I'm not alone, but you sure as fuck are." I grab my notebook and my bag, getting to my feet. I'm taller than her, so I get the pleasure of looking down on her as I push by.

"You fucking bitch! I'll fucking ruin you-"

I was already out the door, giggling to myself.

☆☾★

☼

-Friday, September 8th-

-11:42 PM, Slytherin common room-

My Father says that if you can't buy it, eliminate it.

He's done it countless times; bought luxurious carts and chariots to resell and destroyed the ones the sellers refused to let him purchase. He's bought my mother copious amounts of jewels, only to break them all when he was angry at her. He's written me his entire net worth as an inheritance, but he's given me countless bandages when I didn't behave the way he wanted me to.

I will not throw money at her to get her to go away, and I can't find a way to eliminate her without killing her. However, I can't lie; that image is tempting me more by the day.

She's always there. Why can't she just **_go away_**? Back to where she came from.

Why are mudbloods such pests? Society is crawling with them. There's more than we need. I don't see why a few can't just disappear.

She is a pest. A gargantuan one in Slytherin robes, everywhere I turn, she's there. Tucked in the library, sipping from an abnormally large mug. She's in the common room, reading. She's even at the Quidditch pitch, cheering on Pathetic Potter. On the end-of-the-year highest achievers list, her name jumps over countless others to nestle into 3rd place, right under my own. Now, she's prefect, alongside me.

Aliya Clarke is a Mudblood and an insufferable one at that. I had half a mind to make her disappear.

I had half a mind to slip her name to my fathers' friends and see what they could come up with.

I glower at her presence. She's here, of course, hunched over the table by the window with the worst shrimp-like posture I've ever seen, scribbling down frantically on her parchment. The lake water bathes her face with a sea-green tint. She's been writing for half an hour without stopping. Her essay is so lengthy a portion spills over the tableside. I glance down at my own scroll; a measly two inches of Moonstone properties stares back, taunting.

Her incessant quill finally stops writing. She's set it down, staring at her scroll in rapt fascination, her thumb between her teeth and her eyebrows pulled together.

'Tell me, Malfoy, Is that why your father doesn't love you?'

I barely thought twice before I blasted her into the wall. Whenever I remember her saying it, I feel an itching desire to grab my wand and do it again. And again, and again, until she regrets ever talking back. The Malfoy name was too good for a Mudblood's mouth.

She looks tired. Horrifically tired. She's not wearing makeup at the moment, and the green light brings out the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her lips pull up into a yawn, arms stretching behind the chair. Ribbons of black curls fall against her angular jaw, escaping from the messy knot she'd pulled half her hair in. Finally, she seems to relent, stacking her books on top of each other and picking them up.

I go back to Moonstone Properties, skimming my textbook halfheartedly. At this rate, Mudblood will take second place from me. That thought fills me with a sudden motivation, flaring up in me. I grit my teeth, squeezing my quill tighter.

"'Various stones and their uses' in the library has some interesting points," She says apathetically, not sparing me a glance, passing by my table with her head held high.

I scoff. Who the fuck does she think she is." I don't need your help, Mudblood."

Her lip quirks up into an insufferable smirk. I can feel my blood starting to boil. "Sure, you don't. Aisle three, fourth row." She calls out over her shoulder, bearing the weight of her books as she carefully steps upstairs.

Blaise hums from his spot on the sofa. "Interesting," He comments, sprawling back with a content sigh, hands under his head. He squints up at the ceiling. "Very interesting."

"Nothing is interesting about dirt like her," I mutter sourly.

Blaise glances at me from the side of his eye. "You sure about that, mate?"

Oh, I'm sure. I roll my eyes, gripping my textbook too hard, writing down meaningless words. I will get an 'O'utstanding on this paper even if I drop down dead doing it.

☼


	4. IIII. Realisation is painful for the naive

IIII. Realisation is painful for the naive

☆☾★

I detested Slytherin, at first.

I would be hopeless in any other house, though. How sickening: the volume of my untapped potential lying dormant had I been sorted into Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. I sneer at the thought.

But Slytherin? I've learned to raise my hand higher than anyone else because professors don't want to choose us. I had to _make_ them take me seriously. Slytherin is why I brew potions alone, in the dead of night while my eyes can barely open and my spirits longing for an open grave. I've learned that it's okay to shut off and let myself be driven by apathy— sometimes, it's the only way anything will get done. Slytherin is in the way I smirk when others fall, knowing I'd never do something as pathetic.

Slytherin is in the way that no matter how much I hate myself, I haven’t yet killed myself.

The ‘what if’ is blinding, i can’t get it out of my head

_ what if what if what if _

_ what if i’m made for something _

My ambition is that: live long enough to know— _what if?_

-16th September, 10:42 AM, Potions classroom-

Snape's robes make an audible sound as he gracefully swoops between the rows of desks, returning our Moonstone essays one by one. My leg bounces beneath the table, index finger tapping the old, etched wood. I felt like a cloud, inside and out, my lips unable to stop smiling. Perhaps it was because I took a draught of peace just before I stepped foot in class, but I felt positively elated.

A scroll lands on my desk with a quiet thud, a big 'O' scrawled on the top corner in red ink. My lip quirks up. _It was an easy essay; most people probably got an O too._ I glance up towards a particular blond. Snape was just handing him his; I crane my neck to catch sight of the 'A' in the corner. I snicker lowly; I knew he wouldn't take my suggestion. I've now planted a seed, one that will grow into a demon that whispers to him in the middle of the night: _You're no better than a Mudblood._

My eyes flicker to the dark-skinned boy in front of me. "Zabini," I whisper, foreign confidence swelling in me. Blaise turns to look at me, pleasantly surprised. "What'd you get?"

"An 'Exceeds Expectations' thanks to you," He winks. Beside him, Malfoy's arm stills, shoulders going rigid. My smirk broadens. Blaise's eyes flicker between us, his million-watt grin never ceasing. "Your O is well deserved, Clarke." Malfoy doesn't turn, but he strains further, The tendon on his jaw bulging. His fist is balled on his desk, and he breathes in deeply through his nose. How pathetic, getting angry at me when I gave him the answer freely.

I hope he chokes on his pride and bigotry.

"The general standard of this homework was abysmal." Snape insults in his customary bored drawl. "Most of you would have failed had this been your examination. I expect to see a great deal more effort for this week's essay on the various varieties of venom antidotes, or I shall have to start handing out detentions to those dunces who get D's."

Malfoy sniggered, his previous animosity dissipated, and said in a carrying whisper, "Some people got D's? Ha!"

"Thank you for your input, Malfoy. Next time keep it to yourself." Snape was all narrow eyes that shifted over the class as if he was disappointed at us all. "What is the use of a Girding potion?" Hermione's hand reached high into the air. "Nobody? Pity—Clarke?" Hermione lowered her arm with an irate twist of her lip.

"It increases someone's durability," I answer routinely, shooting Hermione an apologetic look. There was nothing I could do about Snape, but I still felt guilty. Hermione shoots a small smile back, waving it off.

"Five points to Slytherin. Nott—How long does it last."

Theodore Nott has curly, dirty blond hair, thick eyebrows, and a jawline that could rival the meticulously crafted David himself, which fits because I'm sure in another lifetime, he was carved by Michaelangelo. His straight nose is always shoved in a book, and seldomly did his eyes raise to meet anyone else. His eyes are brooding, now, glancing at Snape with minimal interest. He twirls his quill between his fingers. "Between a few days to three weeks, depending on how much powdered sandalwood is added."

"Another five points—Malfoy—" The blond looks up from his textbook, seemingly pulled out of a trance. "—What is the difference between a Girding potion and a Strengthening solution."

"A strengthening solution is brewed in two batches," Malfoy answers indifferently, attention reverting to his book. Snape's thin lips press flat, on the verge of disappearing entirely.

I raise my hand, "Actually," I start instinctively, seeing a twinge of interest spring into Snape's eyes. "The Girding potion increases endurance, but the Strengthening solution boosts strength."

Snape remains expressionless. Silence rings loudly in the room, to the point where I was sure everyone could hear my breathing. _Cheap attempt, you fucking idiot._

Malfoy ultimately turned to stare me down, those steel-blue eyes molten iron with resentment and rimmed with pure metal. It seemed his entire body was made of metal, too, with how resolute he was. His knuckles were a sickly yellow where they were clenched unyieldingly on his desk.

When he speaks, it's a low, calm tone he opts to take, but the threat in it was unmistakable. "The crushed mandrake root in a Strengthening solution needs time to mature between batches. _That's_ the most significant difference. Their effects are both purely physical."

"But they do different things," I counter indignantly. How stupid can he be?

"They also have different brewing methods." Malfoy seethes, knuckles turning white where they gripped the back of his chair. He wants to wring my neck, I could tell.

Hermione gave a little cough. "If I may also add, they have a significant..." She pressed her lips shut at the sight of our cumulative gazes on her, rolling her eyes with a loud huff. "My god...." 

"How entertaining," comments Snape, not entertained in the slightest. "Both of you are correct. Twenty points to Slytherin. The instructions are on the board. Begin making your strengthening solutions."

There was a clatter as everyone began preparing their equipment. I don't move, and neither does Malfoy. His skin is so ashen it's almost iridescent in the faint light; the only hint of color was his dark brows, cinched at me. He remains glowering, both our eyes narrowed and trained on the other. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was one comment away from striking me. "You think you're so smart, don't you." He sneers nastily.

"A genius," I deadpan, setting aside my self-hatred just to spite him. I've never wanted to hurt someone as severely as Draco Malfoy. I'd move mountains just to see Karma beat him to a pulp. I break the contact, eyes falling onto my cauldron, and I move to set it on the stove—the curve of my jaw prickles with the weight of his keen gaze.

"You're nothing more than a dumb little girl," He had that low, calm voice again, laced with underlying ominous threats. "A dumb little girl who doesn't understand _who_ she's playing with."

My nerves were buzzing, numb, and frazzled, begging to escape the prison they were in and hide. Begging _me_ to hide. I measure out my cloves with a metal measuring spoon, but my hands have a slight tremble to them, and it didn't help that I could _still_ feel his eyes trained on me.

The cogs of my brain screeched, halting, finally finding a piece of information I fucking overlooked -- _death eater._

_Fuck me. How fucking stupid can I be. I ruled him off as a mere bigot, I would have never guessed--_

I jump when he seizes my wrist, the cloves scattering over my desk. My veins ache at the unexpected pressure, a dull pain shooting up my arm. The serpent on his ring glints menacingly against my protruding bones. Malfoy was leaning closer, eyes steely and narrowed, but not one emotion on his face. "The dark lords rising, mudbloods like you have nothing to protect them anymore." He shoves my wrist away, as if it scalded him, as if it disgusted him.

I breathe out shakily, unable to fathom the threat I just received. Tingles drift across my extremities, out of fear, out of anger, I'm not so sure. However, I am sure that I won't stand here looking ridiculous while he threatens me over blood status.

I fizz to motion, opening the textbook to page 23. "Tell your dark lord to hurry up and do it, then," I say bravely, but I can't help feel a crawling pain at the back of my throat, like it's shredding into ribbons trying to get the foolish words out. 

I'm a muggleborn. I realize -- at that moment, for the first time in my life, I understand what that means.

It means I can't keep antagonizing someone like him, a pureblood with authority and enough money to buy him out of the law.

Pureblood, muggleborn, pureblood, muggleborn.

The words repeat in my head, trying to decipher what the difference is between them.

My eyes flit to his back, watching as his slender fingers comb through his white hair, the bulky ring on his finger gleaming. He's starting his potion, measuring out his ingredients and dropping it into his cauldron carelessly.

He's a much more significant threat than I naively thought, I deduce. He will join Voldemort.

Ȳ̸̧̢̖̼̹̼̀͌̈̊̐̔́̎͘õ̴̧̼͇̯͙͌̃̓́͘̚ų̵̠̱͉͔̃̌̈́̔̾͌̐̉̽͋'̸̡̙̲̟̱͉̻̭̭͕̣̤̖̋̈́̿̔́̔͘r̴̛̦̻̫̥̹̈́̐́̿̿̚͠e̷̥̻̍̈́͒̄̐ ̶̘̩̭̞̜̗̼̳̳̈́̒̔̄̋́͂͐͐́t̵̨̮̪͍̮̹̎̏̔h̴̢̭̙̼͈̘̘̤̪͇̝͍̲̀͆̅̀̃͆̐̋̒̎͜ę̸̰̟̖̐̽̋͗̒ ̶̥̯̓̌̂͗͆̓͗̑̄̊̌d̴̢̡̧̦̠̻̼̈͒͜͜ù̷͇̺̺̭̫̪̬̔̈́̓͂͒́͐m̴̡̟͚̐̆̂͂̃̉̈́͛͘͠͝b̷̢̢̛̹̪̤̪̭̰̭̯̘̦̜̑̎̈̈́̕͝ͅe̸͎͖͚͓͈̟̦͕̥̟̓͂̄̓̎̾̾̓ṣ̴̢͉̬̗̱̗͕͙̗̳͎̩͙̉t̴̛̤̹͍̥̣͉̯̪͕͙̓̀̉́̌̋̄̽̿̀̉͛ͅ ̴̡̤̟̯̟̘͍̗̪̏̑͑͌͘͝ͅp̵̨̝̝̩̝̼̲̜͂̾̾͐̌̍̄̉̈́ȇ̷̗͈̣̙͙̩͕͔͓͎͍͓̈́̀̂̃͜͠ͅr̴̠̺̗̖͍͎̉͂̓̃̒̓̿̔͐̇̇͒͌̚s̷̢͈͓̝͓̯̀̓̂̔͆̈́̈́͆̂͘͠͝ö̷̜͚͓̩̻̳̖̫̫̙̮͋̊̏͜ņ̴̧̠̞̠͔̻͈̭̖̿͆͆̇̂̏̈́͑͛̊͆ ̸̧̟͍͍̤͇̰̋̅̈ͅa̷̢̻̦͉̮̬͚̬͕̲̳͈̓̈̀̀̃̍͆ͅḽ̴̡̫̼̪͉̖̈́̀̍̎͐͝i̶̢̡̡̛̛̦͖͔͈͓̙͇͔̥̪͚͂̇̈́̑̀̅ͅv̸̧̛͉̩̲̟͇̮͖̥͛̿͆̒̈̐̊̒̒̾̑̀̐̂e̶̡͙͚̼̿̉͋̅́̽͝

  
  


☆☾★

Pansy is many things. Annoying, loud, entitled, and so very infatuated with Draco Malfoy. She trails beside him all the way up to divination, her shoulder bumping into his with every step. Her giggling was loud enough for me to hear her, twenty steps behind them. 

"Do you reckon he's charmed her?" Ron whispers, engrossed, staring at their backs with rapt fascination.

"Don't think he'll be running away, then," Harry counters, watching as Malfoy sped up and practically ran the rest of the way.

I watched him, chest rattled and heavy from this morning. Whatever ease my peace of draught gave me was gone, leaving behind a hollow yet heavyweight encasing my heart.

I shake myself out of it. "Pansy wishes," I say, "although I'm starting to believe it. She never stops talking about 'Draco.'" I imitate her simpering, snooty voice. Ron grimaces, freckles scrunching at his nose, a shiver of disgust rolling through him.

"I'm curious, what's it like rooming with her." Harry questions, nodding to Pansy's back, lip curving in pity. "Eugh."

I look at her pointedly, watching her smooth her wavy black bob. I hide my precious belongings in a loose brick in the wall, by the leg of my bed. It's a tedious but required routine; In our third year, Pansy poured my perfume out the window, split my gold necklace into pieces, and tore my school notebooks because I had insulted her during class. I forgot my wand entirely, not taking a second to punch her right across her face. I almost got expelled when Pansy got her dad involved. Hermione and Harry materialized out of nowhere at seemingly the last second -- claiming to have seen her antagonizing me first.

_She had it coming._ I ran a finger over my gold chain wrapped around my neck; I managed to fix it with a repairing charm and tears in my eyes. My lip curls, hatred furling in my chest at the thought of Parkinson's hands on it, defiling it.

"Like I'm about to get hate-crimed at any moment." I sum up, crossing my arms darkly. A resounding click echoes in my brain -- Pansy, Draco. I'm fucked, I deduce.

Ron nods in understanding. "Can't imagine, mate. If it makes you feel any better, at least you're not Harry."

Harry made a face, offended. "What."

"Well, you seem to have even worse luck, if I'm honest, so I'm just saying--"

"Ron," I speak up.

"Yeah?"

"Stop talking."

"Yes, ma'am."

Despite the tables mainly being used for two, I dragged a chair between Harry and Ron. I was not going to sit with any Slytherin, not ever. "Welcome back," Ron hums, a dopey look on his face. "Eugh, this room smells like my great aunt Tessie."

"It smells like my grandma," I agree numbly. Ron giggled, muttering an 'oh nice!' and lifted a hand for me to high five. I look at it, smiling smally, and raise my hand up to his in a gentle high five.

Professor Trelawney walked in from behind a tartan curtain, hair crimped and frayed in every direction. She was rubbing at her head in distress, eyebrows pinched. Her beady eyes blink behind her thick spectacles, much like a bug. She passed by our table, a waft of heavy lavender blowing over us. Ron barely muffled a gag, biting down on his sleeve to stop himself. Harry, who was quiet up until now, giggled.

"Mercury is in retrograde," she proclaims, shoulders slumping. The shoulder of her gray knitted cardigan falls off; she pulls it back on begrudgingly. "I'm distraught. Nevertheless, I will try to bare through it--" She cuts off into a segmented gasp, gripping at her throat. Her knuckles turn white at the edges of her neck. I perk up in alarm. She chokes, splutters, and then finally lets go of her throat and wheezes profoundly. She whips around, staring at the class with her bug eyes gone mad with fear.

"Who here--Who was born during an early autumn."

After much silence, a few people raised their hands, I included.

She surveys the choices, deeming each one unsuitable, until finally, she halts at me, her eyes getting impossibly wider. "My dear," She gasps, chest heaving. "Is your mother well?"

_No._ "I think so," I say instead. "She was the last time we spoke." _A few years ago._ I offer a smile to try and soothe the professor, but her eyes turn misty, gleaming with gigantic tears.

"Oh, you poor child, I'd stay in touch if I were you."

_I won't_. My smile expands, "I'll make sure to." Professor Trelawney always fancied a bit of drama at the beginning of the year, so I wasn't too scared for Mummy dear. She was probably safe in bed, like always. 

Trelawney looks away like it pained her to look at me. "So brave," I hear her mutter as she walks to her desk. She sniffles, hands reaching up to her face.

"The Grim~" Ron sings ominously, wiggling his fingers. Harry sniggers, and I hide my smile as Trelawney looks back.

She had recuperated, looking about as sane as usual. "We shall be continuing our study of prophetic dreams today," she said in a brave attempt at her typical mystic tones, though her voice shook slightly. "You must interpret each other's latest nighttime visions with the aid of the Oracle." A dozen copies of The Dream Oracle float off her desk, each one drifting to a table.

I catch mine midair, opening the desired page. Beside me, Harry and Ron were discussing what type of dreams they would make up — Ron went with dreams of arson, while Harry decided on dolphin riding. I didn’t hear most of it, though, and the gnawing numbness inside me was curling up my spine, striking me in the chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Hellllo! I already posted this on other sites so i decided to give ao3 a try too!


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